


In Search Of That Singular Image

by accol



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Lifeguards, Alternate Universe - Photographer, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 22:42:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accol/pseuds/accol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>BradxNate AU drabbles originally written for fivesentencesmut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Anonymous asked: surfer brad/lifeguard nate_

Okay, so maybe it crossed Brad’s mind that he could fake distress so the new lifeguard would have to swim out and “save” him, possibly with his fuckhot mouth, but in the end Brad just walked up and jammed his board into the sand next to the lifeguard tower and took the situation head on. Unfortunately, then there really  _was_ some kid half-drowning out there and Nate had to grab his rescue buoy and run; Brad didn’t even try to hide that he was staring at Nate’s ass.  (Dude, what?  That is one perfect ass and it deserves to be scoped.)

At sundown, Brad found Nate waiting onshore when he pulled out of his last run and couldn’t help the smirk that blossomed on his face as Nate reached an arm around and started slowly tugging on the zipper of Brad’s wetsuit.

“So I brought some dinner. It’s over at the tower if you want to hang,” Nate said, blatantly eyeing Brad and casually running his fingers up into Brad’s wet hair.

“Dude, I definitely want.”


	2. Chapter 2

_Anonymous asked: Nate’s a hooker specializing in rough sex and BDSM and Brad is one of his regulars._

“Last time we met, you asked me to top, but that’s not what I’m reading off your face tonight, Sergeant,” Nate said, closing the curtain of the pay-by-the-hour motel room and pulling off his shirt. “Same safe word. Do your worst and I’ll take all of it and love it.”

Brad tied Nate down, ankles to wrists, back on the bed, and head hanging over the edge of the mattress; he fucked his cock deep into Nate’s throat then, relishing the wet, gasping noises and the sight of Nate’s flushed chest.

“You’re such a cockslut, Nate. Eat my cock and I want to see yours get hard because you love it so much,” Brad breathed.

Nate’s gasps turned to muffled moans and begging yelps of pleasure around Brad’s dick when Brad leaned over Nate’s body and started fucking a huge black dildo into Nate’s ass. He pushed it deeper; he pushed Nate harder, to take more and more of the rubber in his ass and more and more of Brad’s dick in his gagging throat, until the sound of Nate’s screaming orgasm rang around Brad’s pumping cock.


	3. Chapter 3

_rubenesquewaitress asked: Generation Kill, Brad/Nate w Ray/Walt voyerism if possible, Dirty Rockstar!Brad smears peanut butter on his bare chest during a show Fan!Nate helps clean him up. Ray/Walt are members of the band and watch._

Sometimes Brad just needed to vent by doing something extra strange, and tonight it was inexplicably smearing peanut butter on his chest and howling like a caged beast while on stage in some sort of demented tribute to Iggy Pop; Ray and Walt just exchanged a shrug and kept up the low end rhythm on bass and drums and finished out the set.

Brad stumbled off stage, drunk on his own cryptic performance, when one of the regulars that lurked back by the bar during most shows, eyefucking Brad from afar, came over carrying a bar towel and a calm demeanor and speaking low into Brad’s ear something Ray and Walt couldn’t hear. The guy (he introduced himself as Nate when they all got back to the dressing room) was so goddamn pretty and Brad couldn’t keep his hands off of him, so Ray and Walt weren’t sure if they should stick around and watch the afterparty unfold or piss off and leave Brad alone to defile Nate with his peanut butter-covered body or what… They took up a post by the door, hiding in plain sight, curiosity winning out over a little pang of guilt for watching something they shouldn’t. But they were rewarded with hard-ons in a hurry as they watched Nate work on Brad, laying him down on the couch in the dressing room, giving him a shot of booze, and stripping him naked, all while whispering in his ear; they didn’t miss the way Brad was turning toward this dude and brushing his cheek across his lips, his dick responding to Nate’s touch.

Nate wiped Brad off with the towel, cleaning the last of the salty sweet residue away with his tongue, but that was just the start of the greatest show Ray and Walt had ever seen… And they’d actually seen Iggy Pop on stage once, so that was saying something.


	4. Chapter 4

_Nomorerippedfuel asked: Stripper!Nate/Highroller!Brad, Nate gives Brad a lapdance and Brad gives Nate a BIG tip._

Nate swayed hypnotically to the music, seductively, with his groin just inches from Brad’s mouth and his hands on Brad’s shoulders; then turning to tease Brad with the smooth arch of his back; brushing his ass over the front of Brad’s trousers with increasing pressure.

“The gentleman knows that no touching is allowed,” Nate said when Brad put a hand on his hip, slipping a thumb under the waist of his briefs and grinding his hardening cock against Nate’s ass. Nate’s mouth formed a silent ‘O’ of pleasure, reveling in the feel of Brad’s dick pushing against his balls, before he regained his composure and said, “So then it’s a good thing the curtain is closed.”

“That’s a very good thing because what I would like to do next is best done without an audience,” Brad said, dragging his lips up Nate’s spine, “I intend to own everything underneath those white briefs.”

“That can be arranged, but perhaps an appetizer first…” Some time later, Nate licked his lips clean and left the booth with a $5000 chip and an unlisted phone number to call in precisely one hour…


	5. Chapter 5

_Anonymous asked: Generation Kill, Brad/Nate, Nate is a photography student who can’t get enough of using Brad as his model~_

Nate’s finger hovered over the shutter release; he wanted the perfect picture of Brad, to capture the essence of his stoicism, the power that exuded from him, and the chinks in his armor, but no one frame seemed to be enough.  He’d pored over the contact sheets from their previous shoots, in search of that singular image.  
  
“Come here,” Brad said softly; he held his hand out toward Nate, beckoning him closer until Nate stood a scant inch away from Brad’s bare chest.  This was the Brad that Nate hadn’t been able to capture in a single shot, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, his faintly musky scent, the pale dusting of hair across his chest, the firm curves of his muscles.  “Why are you photographing me, Nate?”  
  
His words caught Nate by surprise.  “I’m… trying to find something.”  He ran his fingers along the line of Brad’s shoulder, trailing them down Brad’s back to the curve of his ass before he realized he was even reaching out; his thumb reflexively depressed the cable release and a flash illuminated them.  
  
Brad’s lips curved into a knowing smile.  “I think you’ve already found me,” he said, and that roll of film — exposing frame after frame of them entwined with one another, pale skin on pale skin — would forever be for their eyes only.


	6. Chapter 6

_Anonymous asked: Nate is a secret agent and during a mission he is shot and presumably killed. Brad spends months trying to get over him and finally achieves it, only to have Nate return from the dead._

The knock on his door was so quiet that it was almost lost in Brad’s heartbeat; he clicked the magazine into his gun with the heel of his hand and turned the knob.

“Hi,” Nate said simply, and Brad took the sight of him in like a ghost from the dead, one that he’d seen in his dreams night after night; but Nate’s chest rose and fell with his breaths, and new lines around his eyes deepened as he smiled at Brad.

 _Fuck hi_ , Brad thought, but it never made it to his lips as Nate’s crashed down upon his, Brad’s gun forgotten on the carpet as Nate pushed him into the hotel room and kicked shut the door.  Brad’s fingers wrapped around Nate’s shoulder holster and pulled him closer, taking in every bit of evidence to make sure this was real: Nate’s lips too dry, Nate’s ribs too prominent, Nate’s eyes still so hauntingly green. 

His chest tightened when Nate ran his mouth across to Brad’s ear and whispered, “I couldn’t stay away.”


	7. Chapter 7

_Anonymous asked: Generation Kill, Brad/Nate. Nate is a professional dancer. Brad hates dance. Nate is sure they can come to an agreement._

“Alright, Colbert,” Nate said, pulling out of his stretch and padding in socked feet over to Brad’s position in the doorway.  “You are no longer allowed to ogle without participation.”

Brad slowly shook his head even while Nate was kissing him.  “I have a few hard and fast rules in life:  (1) No country music, (2) no more peanut butter after OIF, and (3) no fucking dancing.”

Nate’s eyebrow rose, and he turned; looking back over his shoulder, he curved a graceful arm around the back of Brad’s neck and slid, back arched, down Brad’s body.  “Hard and fast, huh?”  Nate’s ass pressed into Brad’s groin before he slithered around Brad, wrapping around him to the silent music until Brad gave in.


	8. Chapter 8

_Anonymous asked: generation kill, apocalypse au, Brad/Nate, Brad thought he’d lost Nate forever._

The look on Brad’s face when Nate stepped out of the truck, boots crunching gravel as his heart beat in his ears, said everything that two years and 2700 miles had stolen. Nate had been on the other side of the country when the meteor hit; in the pandemonium that engulfed the world in the aftermath, in the dust-covered darkness and cold, all Nate could do was head west and hope.   

Somewhere west of the Mississippi, Nate had miraculously found Brad bent over a campfire, his M4 across his knees and his motorcycle parked at the edge of the circle of light; he was alone, searching for Nate in the blackness just like Nate was for him.  Neither of them could speak; the desperate, overwhelming gratitude that they’d done it — they’d found the needle in the motherfucking haystack — sapped them of their words, so they spoke with fingertips, bearded cheeks, taut muscles, and dirty skin and the message was loud and clear.  Not even the universe can throw down a situation that two Marines in love can’t unfuck.


End file.
